


Convergence

by Lightning_Strikes_Again



Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: Dragons, F/M, Magical Found Family, Major Character Injury, Yennefer/Geralt - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-17
Updated: 2020-01-17
Packaged: 2021-02-27 09:34:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,847
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22294927
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lightning_Strikes_Again/pseuds/Lightning_Strikes_Again
Summary: An AU retelling of events from Season 1, Episode 6: Rare Species.Shortly after Borch falls from the cliffs, the boards break beneath Yennefer of Vengerberg. Geralt is not fast enough to save her—and he panics to find her on the grounds below, dead or alive. But beasts linger in the cliffs as well, further intertwining his destiny with Yennefer's.(Or, in which Geralt and Yennefer attract children of gold.)
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg
Comments: 12
Kudos: 85





	Convergence

**Author's Note:**

> Hi, everyone! And welcome to my first Witcher fanfic! I watched the Netflix TV show and really came to love the characters. So here I am, haha. Please forgive me if I butcher any details, having not read the books or played the games. For what it's worth, I hope you enjoy the story! 
> 
> Disclaimer: I do not own The Witcher.

Geralt stared down into the mists, his gold eyes wide and haunted. “Yennefer!” he cried roughly, her name tearing from his throat in panic.

His hand was still outstretched.

He still saw her image—the beautiful Yennefer in her furred coat, stumbling from the broken ledge, her shoulder and temple slicing against rock. She’d grabbed onto the cliffside on instinct alone, only for the rocks to give way, just as he reached for her.

He’d touched her gloved hand. He’d felt a few strands of her black hair, slipping between his fingers. He’d caught sight of welling, ruby blood upon her face as she looked up, eyes wide in fear

And then—

Geralt did not move, still leaning hard. His knuckles bled white against chain holding his weight.

Jaskier moved forward, stricken a pale white. “We have to go,” he said, pulling on Geralt’s dark armor. “Come on, Geralt. Before we fall too.”

The image of Yennefer’s hand slipping, and the sound of her dazed cry, had burned into his senses.

He breathed out shakily, turning to Jaskier, eyes still haunted.

Jaskier continued to pull on his armor, even as the other boards creaked and several gave way around them. “Come on,” he begged, his voice tearing in fear. “Geralt!”

The cry of his name slammed his soul back into himself. He clenched in his outstretched hand and then pulled away, snarling with righteous fury, his white hair flaring about his shoulders. He grabbed hold of the bard and surged them both forward, just as the wooden planks beneath them began to give way.

Jaskier’s dirty fingers slammed into the side of the cliff as he cried, squeezing his eyes shut. “By the gods, I’m dying,” he cried. “We’re all going to die.”

Geralt pushed him, and his own black boots landed on the entrance. “No,” he hissed. His throat was tight, his own arms shaking as he unsheathed a knife and jammed it into the cliffside. He righted himself before the last of the planks crumbled into shards, tumbling against the rocks below before falling into the mists. “No one will die.”

Jaskier turned to him, gasping. “Yennefer—the—the scary lady—”

“—She’s not dead,” he snapped back. He pressed his lips together, then shoved away from him. His breath hitched. He began to run, damning the dwarves for suggesting such a fool short-cut and then damning himself for following along. His white hair flew back, his boots pounding the ground. There was an outlet in the cliffside, halfway down. He realized he could climb the rocks from there and search for her. To save her.

“—She hit her head and then fell down the cliff,” Jaskier’s voice called after him in consternation. “Geralt, no one could survive that!”

He said nothing, his own heart sinking with the dread that Jaskier was probably right.

In his memory from months ago, the purple eyes of Yennefer searched his own, her full lips stretching as she stroked his face. “ _Why did you stop me from harboring that djinn?”_ she’d whispered. She leaned forward, brushing her lips against his. “ _I could have been all-powerful._ ”

He’d grabbed for her arm, which was perfect in form and so small against the palm of his hand. Her skin was soft. “ _No one is all-powerful_ ,” he’d murmured to her. “ _And such power invites weakness_.”

Those damnable lips had stretched against his own. “ _You’ll regret the weaknesses I still have, one day_.” Her hand had trailed down his stomach, to his sword belt that hung low on his waist. “ _I could have healed us both, you know. Maybe we could have been terribly and ridiculously…domestic together_.”

Now, the witcher kneeled down against the edge of the cliff at the outlet, his knees slamming against dirt. He pulled his remaining daggers out and jammed them into the ground, pulling himself over the edge.

The cliff still loomed below him, the mists tangling through his white hair. His yellow eyes squinted as he looked down, attempting to see the ravine below. “Fuck,” he breathed. His eyes burned.

He did not want to admit they burned from tears, or that his limbs were shaking. The slow pulse of his heart—usually four times slower than a regular man’s—had sped up hard enough to leave him breathless.

“Yennefer!” he called out. He pulled out his daggers, then slammed them into the cliffside, lowering down.

Pebbles slid down from the outlet above, and Jaskier’s wild hair appeared over the edge, along with the top edge of his lute. “Are you mad?” he cried. He reached his arm down. “Come back. We can walk down the mountain to get to the ravine.”

“We don’t have time,” Geralt retorted roughly. He looked down as he moved, blinking his eyes rapidly to hide the emotion in him. His voice carried the strain of his panic. Jaskier knew him too well to pretend that he was not utterly unsettled.

Jaskier’s voice broke. “Yes, and—and we also don’t have time to die ourselves, now, do we?” He waggled his hand. “Come back up here and take my hand, and I swear by all the gods witnessing this, that I will help you find her.”

“Go away.” The metal of his blades whined as he jammed them back into the cliffside. His voice grew halted. “Just—go.”

“What, and leave you here dangling like a buffoon?” Jaskier huffed at him, his own eyes watering. “You’re going to get yourself killed, Geralt, and I don’t want to find another witcher to follow around, thank you very much.”

Geralt’s strong arms shook as his dagger slipped against uneven rock and soil. He grimaced.

Jaskier’s voice raised helplessly. “Maybe Yennefer portaled out. Perhaps there is no body at all, and we’re all panicking for no reason. Because she’s really not a damsel in distress— _you’re_ actually the damsel now.” He’d grabbed for a nearby tree jutting out from the rocks. He weakly attempted to pull its smaller limb down. “Now, grab onto this so I can pull you up before you kill yourself.”

“Jaskier.”

“It really wouldn’t make a good song,” the bard warned, voice hardening in pain. “Geralt of Rivia, the White Wolf. Dies because he fell off a cliff. I mean, really. That’s just anticlimactic, and I won’t stand for it.”

Geralt leaned his head against the cliffside, the rocks unsteady. His voice broke. “Dammit, Jaskier.”

“I’m serious,” the bard cried, his weak arms fighting to lower the tree limb to him. It creaked and groaned but bent beneath the force of his fear.

The witcher’s blades slide another few inches in the loose rock. He looked down again. “I’m not human,” he called up to the bard. “I can survive a fall from this height.”

Jaskier made a strangled noise from the back of his throat. “Oh, certainly, by breaking every bone in your body.”

But Geralt did not listen to him further. Instead, he carefully lowered down, his muscles flexing hard as he fought to control his slide. His fingernails clipped against dirt, his knuckles a pure-white against the hilt of the daggers. “I will save her,” he whispered to himself. “She is not dead.”

Destiny had not been fulfilled.

Unless he was to die on this mountain as well? Her fearless knight—following her silently in death?

He grimaced, his face tightening with fear—not for his own death, but for hers. That so beautiful and powerful a woman could be so cruelly rejected by the universe itself. That she had not yet, not truly, lived. Not for all of her decades. Not for all of her great power.

* * *

The winds howled around him, and his arms began to ache. But Geralt of Rivia endured over the course of time, scaling down the mountain with his daggers until his boot shakily hit the muddy dirt of the ravine, squishing in. He lowered his arms with a grunt of pain, sheathing his ruined daggers.

Time. He was running out of time.

And then he began moving forward once more, his yellow eyes scanning the ravine. The mists were even thicker down by the waters, and he swallowed hard. It was possible she’d fallen into the creek—in which case, the current could have dragged her body far, far away.

The man stood there, catching his breath as his heart fell hard.

His hands lowered.

And then his fists clenched, and he forced himself into a run once more, raggedly crying out her name. “Yennefer!” The sound echoed off the cliffs, carrying up to the heavens and to the nests of birds, which flew away in fright. “Yen, dammit. Answer me!”

Geralt’s eyes watered as he ran, catching sight of a few broken pieces of red wood—the remains of the path that had fallen beneath Yennefer. He knew he was in the right spot to find her. He turned around hopelessly, the hilt of his sword catching the odd glimmers of light in the mists.

And then he froze.

There she was—the great and powerful Yennefer of Vengerberg, hanging lifelessly upon a _golden dragon’s wing._

The beast was hiding in the mists, but its sharp-fanged muzzle rested upon the banks of the water, bright eyes staring back at him intelligently. “My,” suddenly called the beast, in a terribly familiar voice. It was an old, friendly sound. A rather Borch-sounding voice. “You _do_ love the girl, don’t you.”

Geralt stepped back, his hand reaching for his dagger, even as he hesitated. His eyes struggled to pull away from the image of Yennefer. Her proud, furred coat was coated in red on one side, from where the rocks had split her open. Her temple shined with ruby blood, her black hair a tangled halo around her. Her blood dripped upon the dragon’s wing. “You saved her from the water.”

“Yes,” the beast said mildly. “For I rather like you, and as I said, I need your help, witcher.” Those Borch eyes blinked at him. “Are you not surprised to discover that golden dragons do in fact exist?”

Geralt swallowed hard. His hand lowered, and he licked his lip, blinking back tears. “Does she live?” he asked, his voice straining.

The dragon’s great head tilted. “Yes. I sense her heartbeat, but it is slow with death. I can heal her for you, if you wish. For a price.”

“Whatever it is,” Geralt called to him without hesitation, voice tight, “I will pay it.”

The dragon lifted up. His great body towered over the witcher, his wings stretching out. He carefully slid Yennefer from his wing to the muddy bank. “I have a kit that is about to hatch. And as you know, kits cannot take a human form for some time. So I will heal Yennefer of her wounds, Geralt of Rivia, if you take this child of mine, and carry it far away from here.” The dragon’s voice broke. “Where no one can hunt it. Where it can grow and _live_. No doubt, a witcher could protect it better than I could.”

**Author's Note:**

> Please review and let me know if you'd want to see more! Thanks for reading!


End file.
